Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  High overhead, a wind swept clouds dramatically across the sky, now covering the moon, now letting dramatic flashes of silver flash down, but down here, the air was calm and not unpleasantly cool. Ahead, the great royal hall, alone of all the buildings, still burned with light, torch and firelight blazing from the hall's smoke-holes and out from between cracks in the planking, dazzling Ardagh's night vision. It was more light, surely, than could be explained by feasting courtiers—though the Powers knew there was enough noise for a feast.

  Noise that lacks a feast's joviality, though. And . . . Osmod is somewhere in there. I think. It was difficult to accurately pick out even a magical human aura from out of that tangle. But I'm not in such a tangle of auras. Why, at such a close range, is he still not aware of me? What could be so totally distracting?

  Simple enough to deduce. Since that hall was where the Witan met, what else could it be but something political and controversial? Namely, Osmod's plans for war.

  Let us only hope they keep him enraptured long enough for me to—

  The prince ducked into hiding against a wooden wall, Cadwal, almost as quick to react, beside him. "Who is that?" the mercenary whispered.

  A woman, slim as a wraith, wandered aimlessly alone, her face a pale oval in the night. No servant, Ardagh thought, not with that rich gown, though no lady would allow her long hair to fly about in such wild tangles. Her aura was just as tangled, murky and almost out-and-out vague, and there was, somehow, the feel of a child to her—

  Ah. Children born with weak or distorted minds, just as those born sickly, didn't live long in the Sidhe Realm; their own magic destroyed them before they left their first years. But humans, he knew, were otherwise. There was a man back in Fremainn, tall and broad-shouldered as a warrior but with no more intelligence than was to be found in a human boy of five or six. He was a sweet, happy fellow despite his lack of intellect, quite content with doing whatever rough job was given to him.

  I doubt that this wild, pretty creature has ever done a rough day's work.

  Save, perhaps, in some noble's bed—though bedding such a woman, the prince thought with a twinge of distaste, would be almost like bedding a child.

  Beside him, Cadwal gave the softest little hiss of annoyance. "Some half-mad noblewoman. Means her women will be coming after her and causing a fuss."

  Ardagh straightened. "Not quite yet, I think."

  The woman was staring right at him, as though her human eyes could pierce the darkness. With a little shiver, he realized that she actually could see him, though not with ordinary sight. The humans did say that their—ae, what was that pretty euphemism?—their children of God could see Otherliness more clearly than ordinary folk.

  The woman was coming straight for him, her face open and trusting as a child's. Ardagh stood frozen, not at all sure what to do. She stopped just before reaching him, staring up at him with wide blue eyes. Dull eyes, yet with a strange glimmer behind the dullness, a wild eeriness that reminded the prince with a jolt of something the would-be scald, Einar, had told him: fey. The look, Ardagh thought uneasily, of those foredoomed.

  The woman's voice was soft with wonder. "Are you an angel?" For a moment, Ardagh couldn't find a thing to say, thinking wildly, I've been called many things, but a holy being never! Finding his voice at last, he managed a feeble, "Alas, no."

  "But you are here," she insisted. "I prayed, and you are here." Her eyes still full of that eerie mix of dullness and gleaming light, she added without the slightest trace of surprise, "You came for Osmod."

  Ardagh heard Cadwal's shocked intake of breath and quickly put a warning hand on the man's arm. "How would you know that, lady?" the prince asked gently. "And who, if I may ask, are you?"

  "Leofrun." She said that as easily as a child rattles off her name, adding proudly, "I live with Egbert." The flicker of life suddenly animating her face left no doubt how she meant that. And in that one quick moment, it was not a simpleminded face at all, but that of a woman who loves and knows that she loves.

  "And does he love you, too?" the prince murmured.

  "Oh. That, No. I don't think so. It doesn't matter. He's the king, you know; he doesn't have time. But he's nice to me," she added, so earnestly that Ardagh heard Cadwal mutter something in Cymreig that could only be a curse on the head of any man who'd misuse so innocent a creature.

  Ae, no, not quite innocent. "You hate Osmod."

  "Yes, yes, yes." Her expression said, how could he not know that? "He's a devil. You know that, don't you? He's a devil, he kills people. He killed Octa. And—and he tried to hurt Egbert. And I—I—I will not let him. I will not let him hurt Egbert. I will not ever let him hurt Egbert."

  Just as love had suddenly animated her face, it now changed her voice to that of a woman who would defend the man she loved with all her being. No matter, Ardagh realized with a little prickle of alarm, how much she had to lose in the process.

  Egbert, the prince thought without any irony at all, you don't deserve her.

  But—Powers, what was that? A chaotic surging of Darkness, of magic—

  Osmod!

  He had them, Osmod thought, yes, ah yes, he had them almost totally swayed, almost in his hand, the whole noisy Witan, and in another moment they would agree to—

  The prince is here!

  No, no, he could not listen to that. He had the Witan in hand and all it would take was this one more moment—

  Prince Ardagh! Prince Ardagh is—

  The moment was lost, control shattered. "No, curse You!" Osmod exploded. "I cannot deal with both at once!"

  Damnation! He'd shouted that aloud, and everyone was staring at him. But worse, worse was the cold, deadly, silent voice that might or might not have been real: Then deal with nothing.

  And—his Power was gone, drained away, leaving him suddenly dazed, suddenly empty, while all around him, the Witan was coming back to its collective senses and losing the irrational lust for war—no! He must find prey, now, quickly, before everything was lost! At least it was night out there; there would he no witnesses. Let the Witan all think he'd been struck by illness or madness, it didn't matter, he'd find some smooth excuse, some explanation, but later, curse them, later. He would find prey, and feed, and return with Power refreshed, grab the Witan and shake them once and for all into doing his will!

  With a cursory dip of his head to the others, Osmod fled out into the darkness.

  Osmod!

  Aware that he had just gone into a predatory crouch, Ardagh straightened ever so slowly, watching the sorcerer slip from the Great Hall. Osmod was looking about with—yes—with predatory wariness.

  Hunting Ardagh realized. No doubt about it. I haven't sensed his Power because he's worn it down to almost nothingness. He must hunt to restore it, he must kill.

  Not, the prince added, if I have any say about it.

  Wait, though. Surrounding Osmod . . . Ardagh blinked, stared with more than physical sight . . . yes. Darkness surrounded the man, swirling about him, that Darkness that had nothing to do with mortal night.

  "Stillness," the prince whispered sharply to Cadwal. "Do not move so much as a hair."

  I'll not have Cadwal used as a target. But I also will not have Osmod elude us, not now, not after so—

  Leofrun! Her face a serene mask, Leofrun was walking away from them, walking seemingly aimlessly towards Osmod.

  Just in time, Ardagh clamped his hand down on Cadwal's swordarm, hissing, "No! Do not move!"

  "But she—dammit, man," Cadwal whispered fiercely back, "she's walking right into his trap. The poor thing doesn't even know what she's doing!"

  Ardagh tightened his grip. "She does." He remembered the look in her eyes: fey, indeed. Fey as only a woman sacrificing herself for love can be.

  But not blindly sacrificing. Leofrun meant to take down Osmod as surely as ever wolf stalked deer—and she meant to do it, trusting, avenging innocent that she was, after death, and with Ardagh's aid. Just then, the prince knew with cool,
pragmatic Sidhe certainty what she would do and why.

  My aid, sweet Leofrun, you shall have. That, I promise you. You shall not die for naught.

  Cadwal was struggling to free himself. "But—you can't just—"

  "Curse you, human," Ardagh hissed in the man's ear, "be still! Do you think I want this? The Darkness is here, real, perilous!" Struggling for words a human would understand, he continued fiercely, "If we move now, if we try to strike while Osmod is Powerless, his blood forms a link with that Darkness!" Powers, that means I can't simply stab the man; I don't dare spill a drop of his blood. "Do you see? The Darkness will come here, It will defend Its tool and come down on us, and all three of us, you, me, Leofrun, will die, and die for nothing!" Frantic to end the argument before it began, Ardagh nearly shook Cadwal. "Do you see what I'm saying, human? Do you?"

  "Let go. I get the point."

  No, you don't. Even if this is something one of your faith should see at once: the sacrifice of a willing innocent.

  Yes, Osmod would gain Power from her life—but her death, her spilled blood, rather than forming a gateway, would be the surest, strongest bar to the Darkness, banning It from Reality.

  That didn't make what was happening easier to witness. Cadwal, swearing steadily under his breath, turned away, but Ardagh, teeth clenched, grimly watched Osmod pull the unresisting Leofrun to him. Ironic, terribly ironic, that he must wait for Osmod to regain Power before he could use Power to destroy the man. But the Sidhe were well acquainted with irony in all its many forms. He watched Osmod slay and feed and totally miss Leofrun's tranquil, triumphant smile. The sorcerer let his victim's body slide to the ground, his eyes misty with satiation, and Ardagh felt the new Power surging up within the man. . . .

  Now.

  The prince took a bold step forward, crying, "Murderer!" With beautiful timing, the clouds parted and a ray of moonlight caught Ardagh in a blaze of silver, so suddenly and dramatically that Osmod recoiled with a startled hiss.

  But the sorcerer was only off balance for an instant. "Foolish of you," he snapped, "foolish to return," and tore open what could only be his rune pouch. Magic blazed up about him, and Ardagh snatched out a handful of his own makeshift runes, trying not to remember just how makeshift they were, forcing himself to believe that yes, they had Power, he had Power, that yes, this would work. More difficult to believe that this was it, no grand gestures, no dramatic words:

  As quickly as this, their battle had begun.

  Casting the Runes

  Chapter 37

  "What is this?" Ealdorman Eadwig thundered. "What in hell is going on?"

  His voice just barely topped the storm of shouting that was the Witan, confused and alarmed, trying to understand what had just happened.

  "What were we saying?"

  "What were we thinking?"

  "War? Yes, but—"

  "We can't—"

  "Not now—"

  "What—"

  "Will you all be quiet!" Eadwig shouted. "I said: Will you all be quiet!"

  That startled them into momentary silence—and now they could all hear a savage new roar outside the hall. Something slammed against one wall with enough force to make them all start. A voice muttered nervously, "Grendel," and not a few hands moved in pious signs.

  "It's not Grendel, you idiot!" Eadwig snapped. "It's the wind, just that. While we've been nattering away in here, the weather must have changed."

  "But how long have we been in here?" Cuthred wondered.

  "Long enough to miss dinner," someone muttered. "And for what?" asked another voice. "Damned if I know what we've been discussing."

  "Same here."

  "And here."

  An awkward silence fell, leaving one lone voice in the act of concluding, sounding twice as loud in the quiet, " . . . and feels as though we were bewitched."

  Silence fell for another tense moment. And then Eadwig gave a harsh bark of a laugh. "That's ridiculous. Who was going to enchant us? King Egbert?"

  That started a few nervous laughs. Eadwig snorted. "Enough of this. Won't be the first time we got ensnared in arguing and forgot the hour, yes, and without anything demonic about it."

  Wrong choice of words: A few more hands moved in nervous signs at that. "Come," Eadwig said in disgust, "let us—you, yes, and you, what are you doing? Get those doors open!"

  "Uh, we're trying, my lord," the guards told him. "The wind—"

  "Nonsense." The ealdorman impatiently gestured one of the guards aside and set his own shoulder against a door. Damnation! The wind really was strong! "That is," he said, panting, "one truly hellish storm. Truly hellish."

  In the next moment, he realized that was the worst thing he could have said. A stampede of ealdormen rushed forward, pushing at the doors, pushing at each other, nearly trampling each other as they fought in ever-increasing panic to escape the hall that had suddenly become a prison.

  "Leofrun!" Egbert groaned and sank to his bed. "Leofrun! Where are you, woman?"

  That ridiculous episode in the Great Hall had left him with a pounding head. Leofrun, for all her failings, had a gentle hand and a way of massaging away pain.

  Yes, but where was she? Swearing under his breath, Egbert got to his feet. No use bellowing like an ox. Moving to the doorway, he snagged a passing servant. "You. Find the Lady Leofrun. Have her brought to me."

  Damned foolishness in the Great Hall, the lot of them yelling at each other about . . . about what, exactly? War, yes, but . . . ha, no wonder nothing had been resolved, because now that he thought about it with a clear—if aching—head, Egbert could plainly see that there hadn't been any logic to any of the arguments.

  What was that all about? Almost as though we'd been bewitched, every one of us.

  A sudden roar brought him starkly alert, for that first startled moment thinking demons, then relaxing with a wan laugh. Wind. Nothing more terrible than wind. God help him, he was getting as fanciful as a woman. As Leofrun.

  Where was Leofrun? Egbert moved impatiently to the doorway again, just in time to meet a group—a gaggle, he thought unkindly—of nervously chattering ladies. Leofrun's ladies, Egbert recognized, and held up a brusque hand for silence. He'd long ago given up threats of punishment; Leofrun could, for all her slow wit, be sly as any fox in escaping her ladies when she wished. "What now?" he asked. "Where has she gotten to this time?"

  Some snivelling, some nervous, humorless titters. "She—she's not anywhere in the hall, King Egbert," they managed at last.

  "Are you sure?" Leofrun sometimes played at hiding. Like a child, Egbert thought, just like a child. And what, his mind asked, unbidden, does that make you? "Have you looked in all the corners?"

  "We looked everywhere," one woman said miserably. "The Lady Leofrun is out there. Outside. Somewhere."

  "In that storm?" Swearing, Egbert called for his heaviest cloak. This time he was going to retrieve the woman himself. And this time, Egbert promised himself, Leofrun, like an erring child, would truly learn how to repent.

  Ae, yes! In this first wild blaze of Power against Power, Ardagh knew with a surge of emotion that was almost joy that this time he and Osmod could strike at each other. This time their magics could kill.

  Would kill, he corrected with blunt Sidhe honesty. Only one of them would see the new day.

  But how fine it felt, how wondrously fine, to be testing his strength not with some mundane sword but with Power! Even though it was nowhere near the glory he had known in his homeland, even though this weak, hybrid magic squirmed and twisted in his mind, struggling to tear itself apart—ae, it was so very right to meet his foe like this!

  Oh yes. A Sidhe trying to use a magic foreign to him and a human trying to use his limited Power in combat when he's surely never had to fight a sorcerous duel before: That should, the prince thought wryly, make the odds somewhere about even.

  He'd heard some of the ridiculous tales the humans enjoyed, of magical duels full of wonders and flashes of fire. There would be lit
tle here for any watching human to see (watching Cadwal, yes, but the others, Witan and king—where were they?). The sudden crash of Power against Power created a savage whirling of wind all about Ardagh and Osmod, a sorcerous gale strong as a wall cutting them off from Reality, sealing them in its heart, in a circle of more than natural stillness surrounded by all that shrieking savagery.

  Let it rage, Ardagh thought. It keeps us safe from interference. He turned his will to shutting out the storm and all its fury from his mind, blocking it, blocking, till he could see only the runes, hear only them whispering their names to him, till he could feel only the meaning they held—

  No, no, the meanings! Ae yes, all at once the whole swarm of them came swirling into his mind, wild as the storm, an endless tangle of possibilities that, were this not in the midst of combat, would have fascinated him. But he couldn't afford confusion just now! Yes, and was the human overwhelmed by this every time he cast a rune-spell? How could he deal with the endless range of meanings? Some were literal, some figurative, some even so symbolic he couldn't read them—how could Osmod endure?

  How? Because, curse it, the human was only that: human. Osmod would see only what he wanted, the shallowest, most obvious of interpretations. And if he could do it . . . Ardagh forced himself away from the web of endless possibilities, narrowed his thinking as best he could to pick only one thread of meaning from the snarl, follow only that one meaning out of many, and—

  Heat! Terrible, angry heat surged over him—ha, Osmod really was seeing only the obvious, for this was surely Thurs he cast: Thurs or Thorn, as these folk called it, Thorn or even Thurisaz, easy names for the very heart of cosmic destruction, the rune of fire, demonic fire, the Powerful force of chaos.

  You idiot! Ardagh raged. You'd use the lightning to spark your candle-—you really do want to end this duel quickly.